


Not Even the Devil

by Eliza



Category: Boondock Saints (1999)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-02
Updated: 2004-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-11 12:30:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/112423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliza/pseuds/Eliza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For the <em>Intoxication Challenge</em> prompt: "I'm cleaning up and I'm moving on, going straight and choosing life." -- Irvine Welsh, Trainspotting.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Not Even the Devil

**Author's Note:**

> For the _Intoxication Challenge_ prompt: "I'm cleaning up and I'm moving on, going straight and choosing life." -- Irvine Welsh, Trainspotting.

Connor had been on a tear all night. It had been coming for weeks. Usually Murphy was the first to join him on the piss; together they would end up more drunk on insolence than wine and so the headaches the next morning were more likely to be from the bruises on their faces than from the drink. Tonight, Connor went through one bottle of Dewar's and gained a good start on a second before Murphy even managed to find him let alone coax him staggering in the direction of home.

"Do you have the constitution? The depth of faith?" Connor sneered to no one in particular, Murphy's ear just happened to be the closest.

Christ, he was brooding on Da. The tension between them had almost reached the point of open warfare. As much as it was great to have a family business, it never felt quite right when the three of them worked together. The first job they did together--Papa Joe's execution at his trial–was flawless and could be called the best of the lot, but even that didn't have the fluidity...the grace of one done by just Connor and himself. And those times were becoming rarer, not just because Da seemed to be keeping a closer eye on them, but because when they were on their own, Connor was less inclined to continue the hunt for the evil of this world.

Their progress stopped suddenly, making Murphy stumble. Connor put the bottle he was carrying to his lips and drank deep. Murphy sighed dramatically and said, "If you can't walk and drink at the same fucking time, you should stop doing one of them."

Connor wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I did."

And then he smiled.

Dragging Connor's arm back over his shoulder and wrapping his own again around Connor's waist, Murphy made a point of turning away from the grin, an expression whose sole reason for existence was to charm him into going along with whatever cracked idea was running through Connor's head. He had to find some way to show his annoyance at having to search all the bars within walking distance of home and simply ignoring Connor seemed a safe way of doing it. Hopefully it would also kill two birds with one stone, for there were two things Connor could be counted on to do when he was drunk: fight and talk.

"You know, Murph."

Oh, shit.

"I've always wanted to be a farmer."

What the fuck? "You don't say."

"Aye. A peaceful life in harmony with God and nature. Concentrating on making things grow and thrive. And no one telling me that I have to kill anything."

Praise to the Blessed Virgin, the front door was in sight. "What about the chickens?"

"Chickens?"

"If you've got a farm, you've got to have chickens."

While Connor gave the comment too much thought, Murphy fished in his pockets for the keys. He was ready to take pity on his brother's poor, pickled brain by the time the door was open, so as he pulled Connor into the entry, Murphy clarified, "While you're making things thrive and grow, who's going to kill the chickens?"

"Who said the fuck about killing fucking chickens?"

Christ, what an echo! "Shhh! Jesus, Connor, you're gonna have Mrs. Graham pounding on our fucking door again."

Connor's stage whisper as he followed Murphy down the hall was almost as loud. "Well I'm talking about growing fucking potatoes. You're the one bringing up the fucking chickens. And do you want to hear about my vision of a perfect fucking life or not?"

Murphy smirked over his shoulder as he unlocked the final hurdle in their journey. "Potatoes?"

"For the still."

Oh fuck, another grin.

Fortunately, the sight of the bed seemed to draw Connor's mind away from his grand plan and back to his current situation. But by the time his feet brought him to within falling distance of the mattress, the bottle was again the center of his attention. Murphy took over from there, rescuing the Dewar's from Connor's uncertain grip and, with that brief distraction, also giving Connor a gentle shove onto the bed. There was a moment when it seems he was going to whinge about theft or harsh treatment or some other shit, but then he shrugged and toppled to the side, his head just missing the pillows. Murphy set the bottle on the floor by the head of the bed and dragged Connor's feet up onto the blankets before starting on removing Connor's boots.

"You're a good brother," Connor said condescendingly. As condescendingly as he could manage with his drunken slur. Murphy settled for rolling his eyes in reply. "I'm glad you found me."

"And you showed it, too."

"I'm sorry." From anyone else, an apology accompanied by that parody of a trembling pout would have earned them a real fat lip.

But the grin had moved up into Connor's eyes and a smile curved Murphy's lips in spite of his best efforts to prevent it, and he chuckled as he dropped one of Connor's boots and pulled at the laces of the other. "I should know better than to sneak up on you."

"True." Connor sat up and placed his hand behind Murphy's neck with speed remarkable for a man in his state. The pressure was telling though, as Murphy had to put a hand on the bed to keep from falling over. "I'm still sorry," Connor said, sounding sober for the first time this evening and his eyes focused on the trace of blood that Murphy could taste at the corner of his mouth.

Murphy froze. He'd seen that look before, confirmed in the way Connor's thumb lingered over his lip as he wiped the drop away. But it almost always passed in an instant and Murphy didn't want to make an ass of himself. "Your fist didn't make that much of an impression. You're legless, man."

"That I am," Connor sighed. Then he fell back onto the pillows with one arm thrown across the mattress and the other hanging over the side of the bed.

Murphy let his head drop and closed his eyes for a moment, not sure if the emotion running through him was relief or frustration. When he looked back up at Connor's scowling face, there was no doubt: frustration. There had to be some way to redirect all of the anger he knew was bubbling under Connor's skin with all that alcohol. He was more than willing to take another fist to the mouth. But maybe a little anaesthetic first would help.

The bottle that had accompanied them home was in danger of encountering Connor's absently searching hand. It needed rescuing. Distracting Connor by ungently tugging off the remaining boot, Murphy scooped up the Dewar's as he rolled over Connor to the other side of the bed.

"Fuck, Murph!! Watch the knees!"

"I was nowhere near your knees."

"Feeling no pain is only an expression, you know. That's my whiskey."

"It's scotch. Ample proof that your judgement tonight is totally fucked. _And_ you punched me in the face."

It was much better to watch Connor battling between wanting to apologize again and wanting to hit him again than it was to watch him simmer and brood. Murphy hid his grin behind the mouth of the bottle as he drank deep. When he looked back, Connor had decided. He put his head on Murphy's shoulder, then punched him in the ribs.

"Fuck!" Murphy barely had time to put the bottle safely on the floor before having to pay full attention to Connor. Even royally smashed he wasn't a brawler to be underestimated, but trying to smother Murphy while reaching for the scotch wasn't his most subtle tactic. "Jesus fuckin' Christ! You puked up that first bottle, didn't you?"

"Huh?" Connor pulled back just far enough for Murphy to make his next attack.

"You reek, man. I should have let you go at that drunk in the bar, the smell of you alone would have knocked him out."

Connor was too distracted with this new piece of information to notice Murphy's grip on the hem of his sweater, so it was ridiculously easy to pull the back of the jumper over his head as he sat up. Murphy was surprised that such an obvious trick worked; they had seen all those Bruins games together after all. Connor's roar of frustration when he realized he had been so easily trapped drowned out Murphy's snickers as he peeled off his own t-shirt, ridding himself of possible ammunition for revenge. Even with taking the time to do that, he was able to tip a still entangled Connor back onto the mattress .

Stretched out on top and gripping wrists still nominally trapped in the wool of the sweater, Murphy couldn't help but to gloat about finally getting the upper hand. He didn't say anything. He just grinned. The look in Connor's eyes was prize enough: surprise, fury, joy, life. There had been too much death around them lately. Murphy would be damned if he was going to watch Connor join that river of souls, see him die piece by minute piece.

"I'm not going to do it anymore, Connor."

Confusion battled with speculation until both were overcome by revelation so swiftly that it was Murphy's turn to be taken by surprise. In a heartbeat their positions reversed, Connor trapping Murph in a more stable cage of hands and knees, and fury overriding all the other emotions. "We can't just fucking stop!"

"Of course we fucking can, you idiot!" Murphy had to get up onto his elbows to meet his brother nose to nose. "And I didn't say 'we'."

"'Destroy that which is evil so that which is good may flourish.'"

"And we were trusted to be able to tell the fucking difference. I know you feel it, too, when it isn't right. That...that scrape of trying to fit somewhere we shouldn't be. I've got to start going with my gut, man, even with the chance of fucking up. You do what you must." Murphy realized that he had reached up to cover Connor's heart and so it was easy to slide his hand down to make his point. He curled his fingers under so that it was the backs of them that brushed over Connor's abdomen, over the taut muscles that quivered under his touch.

"Going with our guts," Connor echoed. Murphy let his hand brush along the waistband and he continued his caress over Connor's hip. Connor was getting the message. All of the messages. He closed his eyes and let his head hang. "Da's gonna kill us."

"The old bastard's already tried." Murphy's fingertips had reached Connor's thigh and pressed unerringly over the scar there. "Didn't do a very good job."

Connor met his eyes with a renewed fire and Murphy let go of the breath he had been holding since starting this train of thought. He changed the direction of his stroke, moving back up, over the hard ridge, to the button of Connor's jeans. Connor's eyes widened, but he didn't try to pull away. In fact, as Murphy finally slid under the layers of cotton and wrapped his palm around the hot, hard cock, he thought he heard relief in the groaned, "Fuck, Murph." Connor eased his head down to rest his forehead on Murphy's chest but his body stayed tense, trying to hold in everything Murphy was trying to get out.

Murphy dropped a kiss on the closest bit of skin "Move for me, Connor. Like you do when you touch yourself." Connor raised his head, shocked, but Murphy drew him back down, trying to keep him calm and close. Succeeding somewhat, Murphy rubbed his cheek against Connor's, liking the cling as their stubble caught against each other. "I watch you," he said softly. "I may be asleep when you're considering it, but it seems like the moment you decide I wake up. I'm with you from the first stroke." He lifted up to whisper directly into Connor's ear, "All the fucking way."

There was an audible catch in Connor's breathing. "I thought you never.... And here I was thinking I was the weak one."

"You are. The amount you go at it more than enough for me."

Connor dipped his head again, giving Murphy a nip on the neck, but it was the flex into his hand that made Murphy gasp. "Fuck, yeah. Just like that."

"Murph," Connor muttered against his skin and shifted to get at Murphy's fly.

"Get me free." Murphy hissed at the release of pressure, but dragged Connor's hand away before he could get a grip. "Trust me, I'll do just fine. I don't want you distracted."

He had forgotten to include himself in the "not being distracted" part, an oversight made obvious by the warm slide of Connor's lips over his. Of the kiss that blossomed like the pain of a bullet wound, hot and overwhelming, infusing his whole body. Until a movement focused it. Murphy tightened his hold on Connor's hand, threading their fingers together, preventing that trick from being tried again. He also gave the cock in his fist a firm squeeze, spilling Connor's groan into his own mouth.

Then it became like one of the jobs; they knew what had to be done, where they had to be. Connor shifted a bit so his hip and thigh provided just the right pressure to Murphy's cock. Murphy moved their joined hands up by his shoulder to give Connor some extra support. This whole dance was accomplished while they breathed each other. Tasted each other. Touched. It seemed so familiar, like the way the guns had felt in their hands. It was as if they had simply taken a break after spending an eternity perfecting the art. Each moan and sigh confirmation that their aim was still true.

Slowly, Connor pulled away. So slowly that Murphy didn't notice until he lost actual contact. The movement into his hand stopped; the only friction being caused by his own sympathetic motion. The contact with Connor's leg remained; all Murphy had to do was rock up the slightest bit and.... Fuck that was so good! So was the feel of Connor's mouth dragging along his jaw. Jesus, he was practically climbing out of his skin and Connor....

"You're holding back."

"Mmm. Want it to last," Connor said as he nuzzled into Murphy's neck, reminding Murphy that his brother was still more than a little drunk. "Wanted this for so long. Don't want it to go away."

"You're not getting rid of me that easy." Who would have thought that the nerves behind his ear would be connected directly to his cock? Jesus... "Christ, Connor, stop being a fuckin' tease. I don't want to have to wait any more."

"Wait?" Connor rose up onto his elbows to look Murphy in the eye. "Why the fuck would you wait?"

If he thought Connor would feel it, Murphy would have thumped him on the forehead. "I always wait for you."

There was a moment of stillness before Connor snarled, "No more," and shifted back onto his heels, hooking his fingers into Murphy's waistband as he went. Oh shit, maybe he wasn't as drunk as Murphy thought. Murphy grabbed onto the headboard slats to keep from being dragged across the mattress and then tightened his grip as he felt Connor's breath on his cock. The swirl of tongue around the head and a brief sheathing in wet heat had him writhing, twisting the blankets further from their original neat arrangement. "You're not to fucking wait for me."

Another tantalizing, vicious taunt and Murphy could feel Connor take another deep breath. Fuck! This was not the time for one of his speeches. "Will you shut the fuck up and suck me!"

The light in Connor's eyes would have disturbed Murphy at any other time, but he didn't see it for long, because Connor closed his eyes and for once did as he was told without argument. It wasn't the first time someone had wrapped their lips around Murphy's cock, but none of the others were Connor. The sensations took Murphy by surprise: pleasure so thick it transmuted into pain; pain so welcome it could only be called pleasure. It was torment, this rapture. A twisted mirror to the martyrdoms he had read about as a child, he knew that his trial was not going to end in death and salvation, but with the promise of harsh atonement. He might as well deserve the penance then. Hearing Connor's insistent voice in his head, Murphy reached. He pushed. He strove and wrenched and grasped. He put his whole body into the effort to move forward. Only resting full weight on Murphy's hips and thighs gave Connor any kind of control as he took more and more of Murphy's cock into his mouth. Then as frustration was starting to take hold, Murphy remembered--sometimes Connor was an idiot. He took a deep breath, let go, stopped reaching, and waited for Connor.

With the first pulse Murphy arched up off of the bed, just like that night in the holding cell. And just like that night, it brought a revelation: there was no going back; no forgiveness possible were there was no repentance, no hint of regret. Fear and wonder wrapped in a strange calm infused every pained breath. The same emotions were reflected back at him from Connor's face, blue eyes locked with his as both of them searched for a point of anchor.

Collapsing back onto the mattress, Murphy rolled onto his side to face Connor, now stretched out beside him. He reached down to re-stake his claim and found things less than he had left them. It was a disappointment that he hadn't been able to finish what he started, so as a consolation he coated his fingers and brought them to his mouth. The deep inhale he heard as he tasted Connor's come brought his attention back to the heated stare that was resting on him.

"Watching you was all it took," Connor explained.

They lay there, silent, looking into each other's eyes. They'd always done that; they weren't searching for anything, just seeing each other, knowing the other was there. But the quiet never lasted as long as it had when they were kids and Murphy started to see the look from much earlier tonight creep back into Connor's eyes. This time he thought he might know what was causing it. He pulled out the fear and placed it between them.

"We're going to Hell, you know."

"I know."

"I don't mind." Murphy closed the small space between them to rest his forehead against his twin's.

Connor's laugh was shallow, but there was a smile in it. "We were likely headed there anyway." The smile faded a bit as he reached up to touch Murphy's face, rubbing the tattooed _VARITAS_ against Murphy's skin. "To be this close to you for eternity, I don't mind now either." Now Murphy saw the whole picture. "If God couldn't keep us apart, then the fucking Devil sure as Hell won't."


End file.
